


Down for the Count

by Arowen12



Series: Count to Ten [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander has a lot of soulmates, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gen, Implied John Laurens/Alexander Hamilton - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Relationships, Soulmates, platonic and romantic, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arowen12/pseuds/Arowen12
Summary: Everyone is born with at least one soul mark, a sentence or a defining line written in their soulmate’s script. The lucky few have two or even three and others will titter about the room in one’s heart, but rarely does anyone bare more than three soul marks. Alexander Hamilton is born with ten, ten sprawling segments of ink that cover his forearms in different lilts and whirls.
Relationships: Alexander & Everyone, Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Series: Count to Ten [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633753
Comments: 16
Kudos: 194





	Down for the Count

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been stirring in my head for a while, so here it is, my first soulmate fic too (how the mighty fall, just kidding), I’m surprised it took this long for me to write one. There will be some canon divergence (technically alternate history which is kind of weird). Read on and enjoy!

X

Everyone is born with at least one soul mark, a sentence or a defining line written in their soulmate’s script. The lucky few have two or even three and others will titter about the room in one’s heart, but rarely does anyone bare more than three soul marks. Alexander Hamilton is born with ten, ten sprawling segments of ink that cover his forearms in different lilts and whirls.

Alexander’s mother is ashamed at first of the script that traverses the forearms of her son, there must be something shameful to have so many soul mates, something greedy; she almost doesn’t know how right she is. But she is convinced when her son smiles at her that perhaps her son is simply destined for love and was gifted with a heart wide enough to hold it; in this, she is also right. It is a comforting thought that her son won’t be alone as she cradles his frail body for the last time.

The people of St. Croix can admire Alexander’s tenacity, his drive, and in the aftermath of the hurricane, the kid seems to burn alive, eyes searching the horizon constantly, fingers circling words that have not yet been written. It is easier to gather a plate to send the kid overseas, it is community that has always bound them and to unite Alexander with at least one of his soulmates entertains the minds of more than a few of the women.

It doesn’t erase the taunts and jeers that follow Alexander, because of his parentage, because of the marks which he learns to hide, or simply because he is different and they all can tell.

So, it is that Alexander steps onto the shores of a collection of colonies with his sleeves buttoned around his wrists and the sense of possibilities stretching out endlessly before him. It is not a few months before the name Aaron Burr settles onto his shoulders, into the skin of his wrist in simple yet graceful words when the man states, _“Talk less, Smile more.”_

Alexander searches for recognition, that spark of connection, but there is only their intelligence and their words. Alexander glances at his sleeve, hidden beneath his thin coat and shrugs it away taking the man up on the offer of a drink.

What they don’t mention often about soul marks is that while everyone has one, they don’t always match.

The bar is warm and it helps chase away the chill of the cold New York streets, but it is Burr’s smile when Alexander says something particularly witty that banishes the last of the chill; Alexander thinks he could be okay with this, just knowing the man who has become his first friend. Then a trio stumbles into the bar already tipsy in the early afternoon light.

When Lafayette speaks, the accent heavy with French and a charming bravado, the words _I dream of life without a monarchy_ and _anarchy_ fitted into a string of French on his left arm near the elbow that Alexander used to trace every time he spoke the language, the connection of the words tying him to the unknown. Tying him to the man in front of him who gestures and seems to fill the room with a sort of Joie de vie.

Mulligan is a short sprawl of words at the curl of his wrist, but Alexander can tell as he stares at the tailor, thinks about the Sons of Liberty, of a rogue smile, of _when you knock me down I get the fuck back up again_ there is something solid to the man that Alexander can’t place yet but wants to learn to.

Laurens is freckled and gorgeous and Alexander presses his fingers to the words _until those in bondage have the same rights of you and me_ that trace his right wrist thinks of Neves, of St. Croix and can’t help but love that this is what defines the man to Alexander’s soul.

He is near dizzy with the shock of it, nineteen years without the whisper of connection and in the span of a night he has found four of those who his soul might adore. But the shock is compounded with a heady sort of excitement at these men like-minded, the passion that binds them at the moment, at his first true friends.

Alexander keenly notices that none of his new friends had shown recognition at his words, at his soul, he ignores the hurt and supposes it’s to be expected; his mother told him never to be greedy about his soul mates but Alexander wants to.

They spend many nights before they enlist speaking late until the dawn, their buttons slowly cease to hold sleeves together as the bounds of propriety fall but Alexander keeps his sleeves buttoned even ink blotted as they are by the nights at his desk.

When they enlist it is together, though without Burr, who drifts away and all Alexander can do is watch, unable to understand the man but treasuring the nights in which all that Alexander had were the words they fought with.

Then the war begins truly and Alexander has no time to consider the words Burr left on his soul.

They meet again in the General’s tent. Alexander has been bathed in the blood of the war, feels changed and older, and yet younger as if the casualties that have so seeded his life have become a fuel of their own driving him to rise above his station.

It is the first time he has seen the General in person and the man towers over him but his disposition, hardened with war, is still kind and Alexander realises with something that churns in his stomach, thoughts of nepotism and maybe hope.

The words _Everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one shall make them afraid they’ll be safe in the nation we’ve made. Though in reviewing the incidents of my administration I am unconscious of intentional error._

They wrap around his right forearm curving around his elbow and when Alexander stands before Washington it is with the words that haven’t been written, nor yet even experienced burning and the offer, to be the man’s aide, is one that Alexander couldn’t throw away even without the mark and its promise of their future.

They all get drunk one night, Lafayette, Mulligan, Laurens, and Alexander. They are drunk off the success of the Brandywine, there is no tide yet to buoy the war in either direction and Lafayette is excellent at procuring potent drink seemingly out of nowhere; it is enough to warm Alexander who is still used to warmer climates (his friends notice and often sit closer than propriety might allow).

They converse late into the night and the topic meanders, as it often does, to soulmates. Lafayette is happy to show the elegant scrip that curls around his wrist, the name of his wife Adrienne to which the mention of her lights his eyes into twin fires and Alexander doubts it is the wine that darkens the man’s skin with a blush.

John is hesitant to show his soul mark, his eyes dart to Alexander but the drink has dulled their senses all of them and Hamilton only notices the short writing on John’s collarbone. It isn’t a name, but John hasn’t found them yet he admits with a shrug and his eyes are despondent with the promise of death that the war hangs over their heads.

Hercules laughs and shoves his sleeve up to show the words that loop around the outside of his elbow, he jokes that whoever it is must have a fine sense of humour. They rib him of course about how he could possibly find his soul mate with the way he changes beds; Hercules laughs and runs his fingers over the patched seam of his pants.

Then their attention is on Alexander and there is no delicate way, for to raise even one sleeve is to reveal at least two marks. But the drink has made Alexander bold, the caution of his mother forgotten in the warmth of his friends as he raises his sleeves.

The tent is plunged into a thick silence, it reminds Alexander terribly for a moment of that short period before the hurricane struck when all that lived had seemed to flee. Alexander stares at the ink on his arms in the glow of the oil lamp and avoids the reaction of his friends.

Lafayette’s gentle fingers seize one of Alexander’s arms, a thumb brushes over the trail of French and he questions, “Vraiment?”

Alexander nods and then John crowds forward to press his fingers to his own writing, Mulligan, curiosity peeked, follows and his friends gather around to stare at the lines that have been marked into his soul. John says quietly, “Beautiful.”

“You’re a lucky man Alexander.”

Hercules settles a warm hand over Alexander’s wrists and it is a promise, not of reciprocation, but of care, an acknowledgement. Alexander smiles, he fails to notice John grasp his right arm as he replies, “Lucky to have met all of you.”

The subject changes and Alexander buttons his sleeves but after the others seem warmer, it is something beyond the bound of friendship, something closer to brotherhood perhaps. They linger and mother hen like the worst but Alexander doesn’t mind, and won’t admit it but treasures the memories fondly.

It’s a common misconception that soulmates must be romantically involved, platonic relationships are just as common. And then there’s John.

The Schuyler sisters are radiant in the eve of the winter’s ball, they seem to glow to Alexander amidst the overwhelming sea of faces (Alexander is certain he has never seen so many people gathered together in one room). Angelica is the word _Satisfied_ pressed beneath his left elbow and the moments that they speak are full of a wit that steals Alexander’s breath.

Then she introduces him to Eliza, Alexander’s heart may have ceased to beat in his chest, beneath Angelica’s mark are the words, _Helpless_ , and _married an Icarus, he has flown to close to the sun._ It is a warning, a promise. Eliza smiles with a surprised face and pulls the edge of her glove down until he can see his own word, _Hurricane_ , followed by words that haven’t been written but upon seeing Eliza they are there. Alexander admits privately that perhaps he is the one who is helpless.

He is later introduced to Peggy, the mark is smaller than the others, _And Peggy!_ and fails utterly to capture her intelligence as they play chess in the library and she beats him time and time again, she has listened to Angelica enough to disarm most of his arguments too.

Burr shows up to the wedding and when he tells Alexander about his girl, he truly feels happy for him; though it isn’t the only emotion he feels.

Then the war returns and with it Charles Lee and the clusterfuck that is the battle of Monmouth.

Alexander abandons what little sleep he’s gained to pen Washington’s letters to Congress, he also works on more than a few anonymous essays, letters to the Schuyler sisters, and his wife (just the thought of that word makes him giddy). If he is busy, he doesn’t have to think about the blood, the loss, the longing for his family and friends.

The exhaustion begins to drag itself into his writing and Washington notices, he always notices. The General confronts Alexander early in what could be the morning but might also be early evening, it has all begun to blur together without John or Lafayette to drag him to the mess.

“Son, you’re working yourself to death.”

“Not your son.”

Alexander mumbles reflexively and hears more than sees the General sigh before two large hands settle on his shoulder and lift him out of his seat. Alexander scrambles to place his quill on the desk as Washington sets him on his feet and states, “Get some rest Hamilton, you are no use to me half-dead.”

He sways on his feet without Washington’s hands on his shoulders and his vision goes dark for half a second as his balance deserts him. Washington catches Alexander before he can fall which is as embarrassing as it sounds. It is also somehow the coercion of fate that his unbuttoned sleeve slides up and Alexander watches as Washington stares at the mark sprawled around his elbow and back at Alexander.

“Sir,”

Alexander begins and then stops abruptly words failing him. Washington’s eyes have softened, the way they do early in the morning when he receives a letter from his wife inevitably detailing the antics of his hounds.

“Come Hamilton you need rest we can speak of this later.”

They never really do but perhaps Alexander protests less when Washington calls him son.

Returning home is in some ways a relief just as much as it is shameful and infuriating. That all falls away when he sees Eliza, the gentle swell of her stomach stirs something deep in Alexander’s chest, memories of his father gone, the promise to be better now suddenly presented before him. He is dumbstruck and Eliza laughs and wipes away his tears, pulls him into their home. Home, Alexander thinks he could be content if only for a moment.

Alexander is given a command and it feels like realisation to lead _his_ men over the trenches and onto the redcoats. Blood seems to dye the sky for a week but at the end of that week the white of the flag at the parapet is a pure colour, the future is suddenly in their hands.

It is bittersweet to bid Lafayette goodbye; he is happy that the man might reunite with his wife and bring liberty to France but there is the indominable sense that this is the last time Alexander will see Lafayette. Though the quay is public Alexander cannot help but press his lips to Lafayette’s and wrap his arms around the man remembering the warmth his presence brought to cold winter nights (he always justified his actions with being French).

Mulligan wraps an arm around his shoulder and they both ignore the absence of John who is in the South and watch as Lafayette’s ship becomes a speck in the distance then they go for drinks and Alex can finally meet the woman who tied his friend to a single bed.

Alexander knows before the letter is even written by John’s father. He is writing something; whatever it was it falls away in the suddenly inescapable pain that lances through his chest. Alexander grapples at his shirt fearing assassination or some other ailment, but there is no blood, and it is only as he scrabbles at his sleeves that Alexander can watch John’s words fade to a pale grey, only faintly noticeable against the tan of his skin.

No one talks about it but the pain of losing a soul mate has been likened to the death of both before.

The tears come hot and heavy and are followed by heaving hitching sobs and Alexander can’t catch his breath as the pain lingers, it is an arrow through the heart fired not by cupid, but by death itself and Alex knows that even upon removal it won’t heal. For John, sweet, brave, stubborn, John is gone and never will Alexander hold his breath in his own or spend hours talking about how to liberate those in bondage.

When the letter arrives, Alexander is the first to agree that John’s dream has seemingly died with him. Eliza presses her hand to his arm, above the mark she knows belongs to John, and though she does not understand, could not possibly understand the loss (it is like he himself has been lost), he takes his wife into his arms and lets the tears blemish the unmarked skin of her shoulder.

Alexander throws himself into his work to escape the grief.

It is a distraction and Alexander feels as if he has already run out of time as the words buzz incessantly in his head, the only thing distracting him from the emptiness and maybe if he can get the words out it would be enough.

Idly, Alexander has always known that the Declaration of Independence was written by Thomas Jefferson just as he has known that James Madison is one day going to write the Amendments to the Constitution that will provide rights for their citizens, they have been on his arms and he has read both for many years.

Love and Hate are usually believed to be on opposite spectrums, but truly they are the same coin, one easily turns to the other. It has been recorded throughout history that the greatest enemies to rival the infamous lovers had soul marks.

But meeting Jefferson, Alexander abruptly thinks that perhaps there truly has been a mistake. Because this Slaver in a magenta outfit can’t possibly have been the one to write the Declaration of Independence and he can’t possibly be his soulmate. As with Madison, Alexander keeps his sleeves buttoned and ignores the words that he had traced endlessly in his youth.

Maria Reynolds comes to his home late at night, Alexander misses his soul mates, only briefly had he spoken to Angelica before she left with the children and his wife. The absence of John is an ever-present wound, a lost limb that troubles him with the weather and when he turns his eyes on it.

He gives her a loan, tells her that Aaron Burr can help her, he really is busy and Burr has a soft heart for women who need a divorce (his wife needed one after all). She invites him inside, to her bed and Alexander has no mark from this woman on his arm. For a moment he is tempted, there doesn’t have to be a connection, no pain, and warmth for a night. Instead, he thinks of _Satisfied_ and _Helpless_.

He goes to Hercules instead; he doesn’t judge him and his wife forces Alexander to eat and lets him sleep in their bed that night as Hercules talks about tea with Washington. It’s enough to soothe the ache for a little bit longer.

The dinner with Jefferson and Madison is a strange affair, Alexander had found a camaraderie of sorts with Madison while writing the Federalist Papers, but it is thrown completely off kilter by Jefferson. Still, Alexander gets what he wants and that’s all that matters. When the deal is done Jefferson brings out the wine, the expensive sort and Alexander can only think of plantations as he sips the rich wine. It is hot but that is hardly a reason to undo his sleeves.

Still, when he hears of Martha Jefferson’s passing Alexander sends kind words of understanding. He doesn’t receive a reply but he didn’t expect one.

When Washington speaks the words, the ones that wrap around his arm, Alexander knows what it means and can’t shake the strange torrent of emotions that swell in his chest. Washington knows, he has always been adept at reading Alex where so many have failed and he forces promises to visit out of Alex, then forces promises out of him to play nice and for God’s sake think before you speak. Alexander promises and though they don’t speak of it he knows the words tie them together still.

He has corresponded with Peggy for many years, they have become quite the confidants, it is to her alone that he has confessed the whole nature of his upbringing and she in kind her own fears and the humour that translates so well across the pages.

So, when it is not him who feels unwell but certainly it lingers, he pens letters to Peggy and watches the words begin to fade. Eliza sees the fading words and when the last letter arrives, he comforts her and knows that now she understands though he would never wish it on her.

Aaron is the one to see him break down in his office clutching his arm. He doesn’t say anything but wraps an arm around Alexander’s shoulder; when Theodosia dies even amidst their feud, he does the same.

He is in his office when the three of them come, they say they Know. Alexander wonders what it is they think they know. They insinuate that it is his state of birth they know, or maybe it is charges of Speculation they want to lay at his feet, or even sodomy, or polygamy.

Alexander waits and until they are done and peels open his sleeves shoves them up until they can see the Declaration of Independence, and the Bill of Rights written on his arms. The room is quiet, Jefferson goes pale, Madison is in shock, and oh this is the first time Burr has seen them.

They promise not to say anything. There is no Reynolds pamphlet. Though the papers murmur often enough about Speculation that Alexander has to concede Burr’s point; rumours only grow.

He knows when Washington passes, it isn’t painful, rather the opposite, there is a sense of peace, rest; Alexander still cannot halt the tears and drinks deeply to memories of the war. Alexander goes to the funeral and the others may glance askance at him but he can’t help but smile and bow his head in thanks.

When his son comes to him asking for advice in a duel Alexander doesn’t consider it, doesn’t consider what it could mean as he presses his pistols into Philip’s hands; he should have. Should have been the Second and spoken to the man, should have been there. At least he is by his side when he dies.

They move uptown. Alexander retreats, he reads old letters, from John, Washington, Peggy, and now his son, he has no letters from his mother or father. Has he not lost enough he wonders?

The Election registers in his peripheral but for once Alexander takes a break, he walks with Eliza and Angelica, goes to church with his children, wonders how he is supposed to move on, maybe this is the final straw, maybe the emptiness will catch up and consume him for his head has become empty.

The voices asking for his opinion reach him and Alexander wonders how he is supposed to choose between either of his soul mates. Then he realises it’s not a personal decision but a political one, he says as much when he writes, he doesn’t confess necessarily but he knows they will understand.

Burr still chafes at the loss. Alexander isn’t sure he could blame the man.

The letters are incendiary and Alexander feels alive again, it takes weeks to reach the point but the anger is ceaseless once stirred and then they are at Weehawken. Alexander knows before he even steps off the boat that he cannot shoot Burr, he cannot deal with the pain of losing another soul mate. He hopes Burr feels the same because he cannot widow Eliza, force her to feel the pain he has lived with for so long.

He is in the same his son died is that why?

They stand and the sun is in his eyes he glances at Aaron Burr who is studying Alexander Hamilton; he has a daughter who would be orphaned. It is hot for July and he rolls his sleeves up and Aaron mimics the motion, he has never seen the man’s wrists Alexander realises. They count to ten, even before ten he is aiming at the sky.

The sound of two guns firing at the sky echoes over the dueling grounds. Alexander drops his pistol and watches as Burr stumbles towards him they grasp each other’s wrists, and Alexander sees the words, “ _I’m not throwing away my shot.”_ He looks into Aaron’s eyes and the tears fall helplessly down his cheeks; the anger is forgotten.

They go home.

X

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! I really just wanted to write something for Hamilton and I couldn’t get rid of this idea and with the announcement of the movie I just had to write it. Anyways, comments are always super appreciated, thank you!


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